The Heavy Trigger

He looked up with cloudy white eyes, as the film over them continued to cake their surface. Soon he would be blind, and in the grip of the sickness. His actions would become instinct; his feelings would become hunger. My gaze lingered on the crimson hole in his neck, surrounded by trickling rivers of life flowing out of him. My father's breaths were few. His vigorous bulky form was being reduced to ashy,pale flesh that clung closely to his bones. My face was hot, riddled with the salty rivults of sobs. The slivery, icy revolver in my sweaty palm was heavier then my father's shallow wheezes. The weight of all my love for him was held in the steely instrument, the very object that would need to end him.When I raised my shaking arm, numb with unwillingness, all the memories hit with the force of a punch to the gut. Long car rides of calm conversation, fixing toys I had been to rough with, warnings to boys threatening their lives for the sake of my safety, all recollections of his infinate devotion and his undying love. No one loved me more then my daddy. My wails of sorrow shook me. His raspy choked voice managed the murmer: "Do it baby girl." As I cocked the pistol I told myself, you can't kill the memories.